Hours In The Sun
by windspans
Summary: A series of drabbles. x. Ned has always kept his promises.
1. Sundial

They are very few, the things that can grow in Tywin Lannister's shadow, but those that do are stronger for it. There will never be denying the bond the twins share, closer than mere flesh and blood, mirrors upon mirrors of gold, edges, and emeralds, for who would deny the sun? But there is almost as strong a thread that runs, more quietly, between his boys, woven out of smart quips and shared longings and stolen moments; Jaime the one shadow an imp can feel safe under, Tyrion the one man a kingslayer will never need to ask forgiveness from.

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><p>The first in a series of unrelated drabbles.<p> 


	2. Perennials

Once in the early days of their marriage she comes to him with pale blue winter roses threaded through her hair.

_Look_, she wants to says; _now the North is part of me too_.

But there is this look that passes in his eyes when he sees her like this, for just a fleeting moment—no words reach past his lips, save for endearments, and he is nothing if not courteous, and gentler with her than ever—but she shies from him, as a kindness, and from then on she knows to hold to the burnished autumn of riverland flowers.


	3. premonitions

Before the wars and the betrayals, the knighting and the weddings, they are only children running after a future that seems as though it could not get brighter.

Under the half-lit haven of an vine-covered arch they lean into one another, brow against brow, breaths intermingling until they cross that unspoken line to become one and the same.

In the dim light they shine; their fingers scramble in search of the missing halves of their hearts.

This is where they belong. This is who they _are_—and in his sister's mouth Jaime tastes steel, and Cersei in Jaime's tastes snow.

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><p>Thanks for reading, guys! If there's anything you'd like to see, feel free to tell me—no promises, but I'll probably give anything a try (otherwise this would turn into a Lannister fangirling party), only keeping in mind I'm trying to keep this spoiler-free for those who haven't read the books.<p> 


	4. on the importance of domestication

Catelyn Tully may have taken on the Stark name, worn their furs and honor like a second skin, but this beautiful girl of hers—she is no wolf, Petyr thinks.

He watches her; makes a quick catalogue of the auburn shades of her hair, the gleams of silver at her throat, the inflexions of her voice.

When the lance snaps and Ser Hugh lies choking on the red bubbles of his blood, her eyes are pale stones. He makes note of that, too. _She is no wolf_, he thinks again; adds, and smiles, to himself—_but she might just survive._


	5. Incarnadine

Triple drabble this time.

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><p>"Pity your husband is not here," he says, bloody and wild and bound, and Catelyn feels her lip curl up in a silent snarl.<p>

They've brought his sword back, along with Karstark's sons; mislaid though it was, it faired better than them. She tries not to think how close he was to her son, but the man likes the sound of his own voice—"I would have liked to see him on the field," he says. Red streaks the golden mess of his hair. He wears it well.

"My husband is worth a hundred of you, Kingslayer" she snaps, and allows herself a thought for Ned, so far away.

"I'm sure." He shrugs, but there is a smile prowling behind his eyes. He pulls on his bonds, once. "I hope you treated my brother better than this." For all that the ropes must bite at him his stance screams of nonchalance, shoulders loose and head tilted up.

"What does it matter to you?"

"It doesn't," he lies. "But it might to your daughters."

She does not think; three steps bring her to him, and the sound of her hand across his face rings louder than it should. Her fingers come back red.

His teeth gleam white in the encroaching dark. "Why, Lady Stark, I did not think you had it in you."

"Do not make me regret that Robb did not have you killed. You will be quiet, Ser."

"Your husband's life is on the line," he laughs. "Your boy would never dare. I shall need better incentive than this."

She hits him again, and yet he does not stop. Her fingers dig where his jaw meets his neck, and she bites at his mouth to shut him up. There is blood on her tongue; Jaime Lannister only laughs harder.

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><p>I regret nothing.<p> 


	6. Monsoon

Every night he comes into her bed to curl around her, his lips to her ears and his arms around her shoulders, and she falls asleep to his slow listing of dragons' names.

There are evenings, though, when the storms rage against the shore, shake the window and doors. He grows quiet then; his fingers run through the silver of her hair, and on those nights there is only one name on his lips, and it is Rhaegar's.

_I am the last dragon_, Vyseris Targaryen whispers amidst the roar of thunderclaps, and it is less fact than it is prayer.


	7. A prelude to Pavlov

White ill fits him, but he wears cloak and armor like he does his scars, forbidding and unapologetic.

That he can be kind surely is even more of a secret than the origin of the burns; Sansa holds on to a memory of fingers felt through cloth and the taste of tears and blood in her mouth like it is something rare, and precious.

She misses home; thinks, once, of Jon's wolf—the white one, who was always so quiet. Behind her silver catches the light, and she wonders, fleetingly, what it would be to have Joffrey's Hound as her own.


	8. such great heights

Once she tried to follow Bran up the battlements. The stones were rough and hard under her fingers, her feet scrabbled for holds; her eyes followed her brother as he made his own way up, easy as breathing.

"Wait up," she yelled. He only stopped long enough to grin and put a finger to his lips, a reminder to be silent lest their mother find them.

Arya reached for another crack, pulled; suddenly her feet slipped under her, and then she was falling, hands holding on to nothing, breath in her throat and—

"Got you," Jon said, and held her.


	9. psychopomps

Warning for ridiculous imagery and what the hell am I doing-ness. For the fanfic challenge on throneland LJ.

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><p>Bran dreams of summer and of cold, because it is all he knows.<p>

It starts with snow, of course: even after spring the northern winds sometimes carry southward to Winterfell and turn the land to white.

He is alone. The woods around him shiver, dark and moon-silvered. He takes a step, and he is bleeding. There is something thrumming inside his chest and there's a hole in his head, and when he brings his fingers back they are stained crimson and gold.

_I should not be here,_ he thinks. A wolf howls in the distance.

Bran walks. Snow crunches under his foot. Crows fly off of branches to perch on his shoulder. One wears a crown of twisted steel, and moonlight dances over its wings. The other has three eyes. It says _You should not be here_.

There are dead things in beneath the trees. Bran knows this, in the obscure yet certain way one knows these things in dreams. They are coming closer. Grey moths flutter out of the blue fires of their hollow eyes, and fly to his eyes.

The wolf howls, and they scatter away.

There is something he should know, that he doesn't. _I do not belong here_, he thinks, but that is not it. The crowned crow looks at him with his mother's eyes, sad and solemn. _Why?_ it asks, and Bran does not know. There's something inside of his chest trying to get out and snow clinging to his feet, cold seeping up his legs. Behind the trees the sky pulses black and blue, and his father's words stand emblazoned across the stars.

_Why?_ the crow asks. Bran bleeds crimson and gold, and makes himself believe he does not know. Somewhere not far away, the wolf howls again.

Bran dreams of Summer, and walks on.


	10. Retrospect

For a friend, who asked for Rhaegar/Lyanna. Possible book spoilers in the form of mentions to a past event (tourney at Harrenhal) that I do not believe have been explicitly mentioned in the show, but that I do not believe to be particularly important.

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><p>In the glow of torches she looks half-fey and beautiful; he cannot help but think<em>—Lyanna was born to be crowned<em>.

"Where are you going?" he asks. The jousting is done, but the flowers that marked her for queen of love and beauty lie still on her brow. It is night now.

"Let me go," she smiles; "promise you won't tell."

He can but nod; tells himself, turning away, that he has never seen the blue of her roses brush against the silver of a prince's hair. "I promise," he breathes, and pretends not to hear her footsteps fade away.

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><p>Again, if there's anything you'd like to see, please tell me! Prompts make me happy.<p> 


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